


Drunken Words

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, M/M, a lil sad i guess but mainly cute, admitting feelings, drunk!orlo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:02:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27643172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Request: a fic where drunk!Orlo finally admits he has feelings for the reader?
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader, Orlo (The Great TV 2020)/You
Kudos: 14





	Drunken Words

You sighed as you reached to steady Orlo again, grabbing him firmly by the arm as he stumbling away from his place at the banquet table. He was too drunk to make it back to his own quarters alone, and far too drunk to remain. He had already insulted far too many of the diners sat around you.

“Bye!” He slurred, and you back looked apologetically at the people sat around you.

You hoped their own moderate wine consumption might soften their memories of Orlo’s words before gossip spread the next morning.

His recent fondness for alcohol making you a little concerned. He had not drunk much, buy the standards of the court at large, but the rate he’d been draining his glass at dinner was enough to make the Count uneasy on his feet. He had only begun to drink recently, and he was still unused to it. He could barely walk.

“You would not do well on boats,” you teased, slinging his arm over your shoulders as you struggled to guide him from the table. “No sea legs.”

He was drawing the attention of the whole dinner crowd, whispers and giggles rippling around the large room as you desperately tried to get him out of there.

Before he said something dangerous.

“I feel like I’m already on a ship,” he declared noisily.

“Shh… you’re being loud,” you hissed, wincing under the stares he’d drawn.

Even Catherine and Peter had noticed now, and you heard the booming voice of the Emperor, making some unfunny wise crack from his place at the other end of the room. You ignored him, just trying to get your drunk friend out of his sight.

“Just a few more steps,” you coaxed, desperate to get him beyond the doors.

You had seen the fire behind Catherine’s warning glare to you when he had begun to speak out of turn, and you understood her anger. The alcohol had made Orlo’s tongue loose. You had to get him out of polite company before he said something to get him in trouble – or worse, exposed Catherine and the rest of the coup.

Why you had become his babysitter, you had no idea. Of course, you were closest to him, fond of him as a friend, but you loathed that you would have to tell him off for his behaviour the next day.

No doubt the next day’s coup meeting would be spent with the group mocking him for being such a lightweight.

Finally the hall doors were opened for the pair of you, and any guise of a subtle exit was ruined by the stomp of the guards’ boots as they made a path for you to half-drag the intoxicated Count away from the banquet. But you still weren’t alone. The corridors echoed with giggles of ladies following you, keen to watch the scene.

You set off down the long walk to the wing of the palace Orlo lived in, your pace agonisingly slow as the aristocrat dragged his feet bonelessly. He was a mess.

“Can we go to your room?” He asked suddenly, perking up.

“No,” you laughed, “absolutely not. We are getting you straight to bed.”

“Are you coming?”

“I really do not believe you can make it there on your own,” you teased.

Orlo groaned enthusiastically, beaming wide at you, and you looked away with a chuckle.

“Come to my bed.”

The words were so mumbled you almost missed them, and you focussed on just getting Orlo towards his quarters, further than the cruel eyes of the court gossip mongers would follow.

“Please…” he whined, and you nodded just to make him quieten down.

Truthfully you wanted to laugh at him, if only Orlo’s trusting, open words weren’t making your heart melt with fondness for him.

He was a friend, you reminded yourself. Nothing more. You cried out as he stumbled suddenly, pulling both of you to the floor. Running guards helped you get him to his feet, and you dusted yourself off, waving them away with a muttered thanks.

“I am not sure I like this sudden proclivity for drunkenness, Orlo,” you grumbled.

“It is fun! I am having fun. Being more fun. I am always told I am too… unfun. Not fun? Boring?”

You ignored his rambling.

Finally the pair of you struggled to his door, and you breathed a sigh of relief at the possibility of a rug beneath your feet, should the Count make you stumble again. He pulled at your skirts as his legs gave way beneath him, and you groaned as you helped him back upright.

He laughed at your irritated sigh.

“You are being a handful, Orlo.”

He guided himself to his bed, laying down eagerly, and extending his hands to you. You ignored him, searching for a washcloth.

“I do not mean to be,” he slurred. “Come here.”

You evaded his wandering hands, pushing him back to the mattress and trying not to smirk at the soft ‘oof’ sound he made as you shoved him. You wiped his face gently, one hand devoted to balancing yourself above him, and he looked up at you with wide eyes. You were so caught up in staring at him, you startled at the realisation those trusting brown eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.

With one last swipe of the cloth across his face, you set it aside.

“What’s wrong?”

“M’sorry.”

His lip trembled, and you sighed as he began to cry. Typical.

“I should have left you to sober up in a corridor,” you grumbled.

Nonetheless you carefully tugged off his shoes, setting them aside so he could climb under the blankets without ruining his bed. You left his stockings on beneath his trousers, knowing Orlo would be mortified at the idea of being seen in just his underwear. He could deal with them in the morning.

When you returned from setting his shoes aside his tears had already stopped, as fickle as they had arrived, and you watched his quick breathing for a second. 

His hands grasped at your clothes for comfort, wanting you closer. You relented, surprised by the force of his tugging, and lay beside him.

“Would you rather not be in my bedroom?” He asked timidly.

“Hm?”

“You said you… you should have left me in a corridor.”

His head hit the pillow heavily as he flopped back, and you felt the impact of it beside your own face.

“I was kidding,” you reassured him.

The layout of the bed, enclosed against a wall, should prevent him from rolling out the other side. You simply had to wait for him to fall asleep, then you could leave him to the almighty hangover he would be nursing the next morning.

“I like it when you are here,” he confessed.

You laughed lightly, hoping he would sleep soon. His words would make your heart ache in the morning, just as badly as his hangover would hurt his head.

Already, he unknowingly hurt your heart. Even sober. Every time he introduced you as his beloved friend, each time he caught you staring at his lips as he read drafts of speeches to the group, each meaningless pat of your hand as he bid you goodnight: they would all ache more after his drunken nonsense.

You wouldn’t allow his intoxicated flirting to give you hope.

“We need to get you under the sheets. You will get cold otherwise.”

He complied limply, finally letting you set your feet on the ground to pull his blankets and sheets aside. You laughed as he struggled to climb beneath them, apparently refusing to stand, and congratulated him mockingly when he finally accomplished such an impossible feat.

He looked cosy. You could finally be satisfied he was settled in, and safe. As you began to extinguish the candles he reached out a hand for you with a whine. You begrudgingly walked back to his side, accepting his need for comfort.

“Sleep with me,” he mumbled.

You laughed harshly, and he looked up at you in innocent, hurt, shock. Perhaps he hadn’t realised the insinuation of his words. He held the blankets up, offering you the space beside him, and you tried to be kinder – smiling even – as your heart ached with longing for this very situation on a more real, sober evening.

“I would slap anyone else for saying that to me,” you teased, relieved to hear Orlo chuckle in response.

With gentle hands you pried the sheets from his hand, covering him again. Rejecting his offer.

“I meant nothing crude,” he promised. “I just like having you near me.”

Another time.

The words sat ready on your tongue, but you kept your mouth closed, unwilling to make a fool of yourself in the event the Count remembered tomorrow.

“That is sweet,” you told him evenly.

No. You could smell the alcohol on him, distorting the scent of paper and ink you were so fond of. There was a slur in his voice, one which told you he could not possibly be sincere.

Perhaps this was the reason he did not drink. He would say too many things he regretted in the morning, lies and flattery which he could not back up.

His face was pressed into the pillow as he spoke. He looked different without the stress of his job on his face. And without his glasses. He had abandoned them since they had been smashed, not bothering to replace them. They sat folded up on his mantle, the cracked lenses still tinged with blood which made you nauseous should you look at them for too long.

“You do not believe me,” he declared bluntly, and you winced at the hurt in his voice.

“I do! You are just… very drunk, Orlo.”

The half of his face you could see betrayed his frown, and his hand began to reach for you again.

“It is my favourite thing in the world when you hug me,” he rambled. “And I look forward to the possibility of seeing you every day. And I feel something warm inside myself when you smile at me. And at night I wish you were warm beside me, so I could hold you–”

“Stop, please.”

The was enough. You would take your aching heart and leave. Orlo could apologise to you in the morning, and the less you let him regret saying the better. Perhaps there would be more chance he could forgive himself.

“Goodnight, Orlo.”

As you walked to the door you heard commotion behind you and sighed, hoping he was not getting out of bed. It would be a nightmare to make him settle again. Suddenly there was a grunt of frustration, a ripping of fabric, and you stopped in your tracks, wincing. Concern for his wellbeing overpowered your pride, and you turned to look at him, seeing him sat up and tangled in his blankets.

He looked at you with such earnestness you could hardly stand to see it.

“I would betray Catherine for you.”

“Orlo! Shush,” you chastised, ignoring the pounding of your heart at his admission, “go to sleep. You will say something you regret.”

“I love you.”


End file.
